There’s an itch. It began benignly enough — just a minor sensation on the back of my left hand. I scratched it, and it went away. A week later, it returned slightly red and inflamed. I gave it a few more scrapes with my meaty nails until it was a part of the past. Two days later, the red spot grew, and my whole left hand could not escape the sensation. Lotions, ointments, and creams did me no luck, so I returned to hearty scratching until the itch went away. The problem is that it won’t go away now. It’s a part of me, and now my left hand is a swirl of permanent nail marks, the redness turned into a chalky white as skin begins to flake away. This nagging itch has been brought about thanks to Compound Eye. Origin of Silence is the sort of metaphysical ailment that you can’t rid yourself of, a dense, slightly yellowing vinyl disc that must always occupy the turntable. The work of Drew McDowall and Tres Warren grows in intensity with each successive spin, its silence becoming uncomfortable and its piercing drones proving more satisfying than any other source of din. My left hand has become a badge of honor, and Compound Eye has become the brigade’s brave drummer. They lead me to my doom. My pocked hand and I shall go willingly.
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